It drizzled, but not even grasses <br />Would bend within the bag of storm; <br />Dust only gulped its rain in pellets, <br />The iron roof-in powder form. <br /> <br />The village did not hope for healing. <br />Deep as a swoon the poppies yearned <br />Among the rye in inflammation, <br />And God in fever tossed and turned. <br /> <br />In all the sleepless, universal, <br />The damp and orphaned latitude, <br />The sighs and moans, their posts deserting, <br />Fled with the whirlwind in pursuit. <br /> <br />Behind them ran blind slanting raindrops <br />Hard on their heels, and by the fence <br />The wind and dripping branches argued- <br />My heart stood still-at my expense. <br /> <br />I felt this dreadful garden chatter <br />Would last forever, since the street <br />Would also notice me, and mutter <br />With bushes, rain and window shutter. <br /> <br />No way to challenge my defeat- <br />They'd argue, talk me off my feet.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sultry-night/
